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Back The Shoe Queen Save as PDF
Chapters (67)
  1. Cover
  2. “And may I say, those shoes are adorable.”
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. ( I )
  7. ( one )
  8. ( two )
  9. ( three )
  10. ( four )
  11. ( five )
  12. ( six )
  13. ( seven )
  14. ( eight )
  15. ( nine )
  16. ( ten )
  17. ( II )
  18. ( eleven )
  19. ( twelve )
  20. ( thirteen )
  21. ( fourteen )
  22. ( fifteen )
  23. ( III )
  24. ( sixteen )
  25. ( seventeen )
  26. ( eighteen )
  27. ( nineteen )
  28. ( IV )
  29. ( twenty )
  30. ( twenty-one )
  31. ( twenty-two )
  32. ( twenty-three )
  33. ( twenty-four )
  34. ( V )
  35. ( twenty-five )
  36. ( twenty-six )
  37. ( twenty-seven )
  38. ( twenty-eight )
  39. ( twenty-nine )
  40. VI
  41. ( thirty )
  42. ( thirty-one )
  43. ( thirty-two )
  44. ( thirty-three )
  45. ( thirty-four )
  46. ( VII )
  47. ( thirty-five )
  48. ( thirty-six )
  49. ( thirty-seven )
  50. ( thirty-eight )
  51. ( thirty-nine )
  52. ( forty )
  53. ( forty-one )
  54. ( forty-two )
  55. ( VIII )
  56. ( forty-three )
  57. ( forty-four )
  58. ( forty-five )
  59. ( forty-six )
  60. ( forty-seven )
  61. ( forty-eight )
  62. ( forty-nine )
  63. ( fifty )
  64. ( fifty-one )
  65. Acknowledgments
  66. Acknowledgments
  67. Questions for Discussion

I didn’t love my mother. How could I, after what happened? Sometimes I think I hated her. I am sad for her, though. She was young and beautiful once, but it was all wasted. She must have yearned for something more than she had.

I’m yearning too. For something beyond this place—beyond the constraints of my married life, even. I feel so lonely. Robert went back last week. He was very sweet, I have to say. And yet I was lonely even when he was here.

And I am grieving—yes I am. Though not for Mummy. You know why I’m grieving. You’re the only person I’ve confided in. The only person I can really trust. I miss you so much, Lulu.

Write soon.

Much love,

GENEVIEVE

( eighteen )

THE MODELS STALKING AROUND the heavily mirrored first floor of Madame Hélène’s Salon de Couture were in swimwear. Stripy costumes, made of the jersey fabric popularized by Coco Chanel and showcased in Le Train Bleu. Everyone would be dressed this way on the Riviera. Down the carpet they strolled, rounding the intricate glass fountain at the far end of the room, and back.

Genevieve had returned only two days before. This was her first outing with Lulu, and it should have been the perfect antidote to Ticksted—an afternoon of high fashion, offering the opportunity to show off something special from her extensive wardrobe. The dress, by Madeleine Vionnet, was a cascade of delicate chiffon petals. On her feet she wore a pair of spectacularly high heels by Ferragamo in precisely the same elusive hue (hovering indeterminately between cream and pink). But Lulu thought Genevieve looked pale in the dress today, and somehow uncertain. She might have been longing to be back in Paris, but her eyes had a remoteness about them.

It was a hot July day, and the room was stuffy. Lulu was making good use of the gaudy Chinese fan that she’d brought along, fanning both herself and Genevieve.

“What you need,” she whispered to Genevieve, “is a holiday. Why don’t you buy yourself one of these costumes? We could go down to the coast for a few weeks. Swim in the sea, laze about on the beach.”

“But I’ve only just got back,” said Genevieve. “This is where I want to be.”

“Is it?” Lulu looked at her sidelong.

“Of course. I still can’t believe I missed Bastille Day.”